


Personal Centerfold

by furorem_yandere



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Obsessive Behavior, Secret Admirer, Stalking, Vaginal Fingering, Yandere, nonconsensual photography, yandere noir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-26 14:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17747708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furorem_yandere/pseuds/furorem_yandere
Summary: Noir spends much of his time photographing you.  He loves how honest your expressions are when you think you're all alone, though this trip it seems you're a little... too honest.  He loves it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> @yandere-drabbles on tumblr has the sweetest yandere Spider-Man Noir and I got inspired when they mentioned he’s got pictures of his s/o in... compromised positions. ;) 
> 
> (TW: stalking, nsfw, masturbation, invasion of privacy, non consensual photography)

It's all Peter can manage not to press to the screen. He's not particularly worried about being found, of course, but that’s no reason to be careless. Your window is at such an angle that no one looking in head on would be able to see you in your bed, and if they were in the building across they would be too far to see and might only glimpse your feet.

 

He supposed that you hadn't considered a man that could walk up walls.

 

Peter Benjamin Parker gets comfortable, sitting down and leaning back to the wall. He carefully angles himself for a good shot and raises his camera. The button clicks silently in his hand. It was meant to be for stakeouts, completely silent and light adjusting. It was of his own creation as a flash or a sound could give away his position to criminals, but lately he's been using it more for you. He can see you so clearly even with the screen separating you two. You're so pretty when you think no one's watching, soft and reposed by the trials of the day as you lay in your bed. It takes him a moment but his heart swells in his chest when he realizes what you have on.

 

It's the silk nightgown he'd left for you. He'd left it in your office desk, with a little note of his poetically waxed affections and some tea he'd seen you eyeing. He remembers waiting outside your office window, savoring your small moment of softness in your otherwise professional demeanor. You'd smiled, little flickers of hope in your eyes and a pretty flush staining your cheeks as you'd read the ending of Your Secret Admirer and had looked around, hoping to catch him.

 

And now you were wearing it, pretty and perfect with mussed hair and a book in your hands as you read. He takes another snapshot with shaking hands. If he listens hard he can hear your breath, slow and easy. He can't wait until you can breathe like that while knowing he's here with you.

 

You blink sleepily, and set the book down to rub your tired eyes. You sit in bed a moment, thumbing the shoulder of the nightgown and heave a sigh. You look... wistful. Uncharacteristically so. He hadn't been around you much today, having had to get on a few cases. He wonders what could be causing this sudden pool of wanting to form within you.  If it was within his power, he’d give whatever it was that left you wanting to you.  You reach over offhandedly to the light and flick it off, darkness embracing you. Your breathing changes, and it stirs his ears. Something about you is so off tonight, but what could it be?

 

You slip downwards, pushing the blankets off of you and he frowns. Unusual.  You always sleep under a blanket no matter how hot it gets. What could- Oh my. Peter’s thoughts are scrambled when he sees the silk of the nightgown slide up your thigh ever so slowly.  It’s enchanting, watching it go up, up, up, pooling at the juncture of your hips and thighs.  He sees you squirm slightly and can feel his hands shake around the camera as he takes a picture.  He hears you sigh, eyes fluttering closed as your hand slowly feels down your chest to the hem of the nightgown.  His breath catches in his throat when you don’t hesitate to pull it up, rolling the hem slightly and taking it between your teeth to hold it out of the way and leave you bare.

 

His eyes trail down, seeing the nightgown pulled so only the bottoms of your breasts are visible, tantalizingly shrouded by something he had given.  His mouth wets, looking down to your soft stomach that tightened and flexed with restrained arousal, down further to hips that he desperately wanted to grab and hold, yet down even further still to see you bare between your legs.  He wants to look away, to let you be in your private moment but still another, larger and stronger part of him wants this moment for himself.  His breathing deepens and he hurriedly pulls the camera up for another shot, taking two more just in case before remembering he only had so much film.  Next time, he would bring even more.

 

Your hand doesn’t hesitate and it’s somehow more alluring than if you’d drawn it out.  Your legs open easily and he can see you shiver.  A finger taps against your core and draws away without dipping inside, glistening with a string of slick arousal tying the two together.

 

Click.  Arousal draws tight in his gut and he can feel himself beginning to thicken in his pants.  He ignores it and looks up from the camera’s lens.

 

You press back to your core, nudging just a finger into the first knuckle and it takes everything in his power not to make a sound and remain still.  He wants so badly for that finger to be his.  You sigh softly around your own makeshift gag, lips turning up a moment before you dip another finger in, stretching the fingers in your entrance.  Click, click.  It’s almost magical to watch your face, brows drawing together in pleasure and effort for restraint.

 

Your fingers trail up, rolling a little bead of flesh at the top in them and suddenly you’re squirming, whimpering quiet cries and he curses the fabric.  He wants so badly to hear you unrestrained and wanton, to have his fingers where yours are now.  Click. He wants his fingers slick with you, wants his thumb to roll your clit and watch you shake like you are right now.  He wants his mouth against your core, wants to taste just how wet and wanting you are for him.  Click.  

 

You’re getting louder and he palms himself, wanting to share the moment with you for just a moment.  He gets lost in the fantasy of your thighs shaking and useless with your hips in his hands as he services you, shows you how you’re his everything, his whole world.  He wonders just how soft you’d be, just how good it would feel to have you in his hands.  Hell, he knows exactly what he wants to do for you but he feels like a dog chasing a car: even if he finally caught you, he has a feeling he’d be so lost in the moment he wouldn’t know what to do first.  

 

He raises his hand and click.  He watches and oh, now you’re silent but the gag is out of your mouth and your lips are open in a scream without sound and you’re so wet that you’re drooling arousal onto the sheets and staining them dark.  He knows in the morning he’s going to be there with his face buried in them while you’re away at work with his cock in his hands and the camera in his hands goes click, click, click, click, click to catch each phase of pleasure you go through. 

 

You’re shaking, paused and resting glistening fingers on your stomach.  Peter’s stomach tightens before he’s watching you slowly draw your fingers up and he can’t get the camera up fast enough, can’t even believe his eyes that your fingers go between your lips and lick yourself off your fingers with a quiet, pleased moan.  Click, click, click.

 

He’s never been so hard in his life.  It’s going to be hell getting home.  Peter straightens on the wall, about to put the camera away.  He figures he ought to let you sleep (he had plenty of your dozing body on his wall at home) but soon your fingers are trailing back down from your lips to replace the gag in your mouth and are suddenly back to your nethers.  His breath catches in his throat again as he watches.  Whereas before you’d barely stuck a finger or two in, he watches as three fingers of yours glide in without issue.  He can see them stroke inside yourself, watching as you let out a louder moan, throwing your head back against the pillows and click, click, he takes the shot.  The fabric follows the grip your mouth has and rides up enough to reveal your breasts fully and oh God, you look just so soft.  Your thumb presses to your clit harshly and you’re shouting is gagged to the world.

 

Your sweet, musky arousal is stronger in his nose now and he has to swallow, he’s salivating so much.  You smell so perfect, so delicious.  He wants so badly to just punch the screen out and take you on his tongue and make you scream as many times as it takes for you to be satisfied.  He wants so bad to run his hands up your hips and feel your waist in his hands.  He wants to fill you up so badly, leave little marks on your neck that you’d chastise him for in the morning but in the moment you’d moan for more at.

 

He sees you shake and you’re moving, trembling so much more, probably oversensitive.  Oh god, he can hear it; a wet squelch from your core as your fingers intrude.  You draw your fingers out and he nearly gasps for air when he watches the slick form a thin web as you spread them.  One of your beautiful eyes has opened, looking down and almost admiring the slick.  You quirk a smirk behind the gag and click, click, and then you’re throwing your head back again when they return to your cunt, rolling your clit in familiar fingers.

 

 He hears moans slipping from you, whimpers and little perfect cries between the click of his camera.  When you come this time, you make the most perfect little noise he’s ever heard.  A harsh, rebellious whine from your throat and through his hazy arousal, Peter dizzily thinks to himself that he may have to start bugging your house.  Click, click, click.

 

Peter watches as you frantically stroke yourself through it before slowly easing off and resting a moment.  He watches your thighs, trembling at your sides even worse now and watches the pooling slick beneath you on the bed get larger and darker, swallowing.  He raises the camera again for the reposed moment only to curse himself when he realizes he’s out of film.  He glares down at the now useless object and curses himself.

 

A moan startles him out of his thoughts and he looks up, bewildered to see you slowly stroking yourself again.  It looks like you’re really fighting to keep still and not make any noise.

 

Peter feels a deep sense of pity at your dissatisfaction.  You didn’t go to bars often.  He never saw you bring anyone home (not that he would let you).  He thought maybe it was just a preference, that maybe you didn’t like strangers in your home or being a stranger in another’s, but maybe no one had ever been able to keep up.

 

But oh, Peter would.  He’d take care of you so carefully and he’d be so thorough.  He’d make sure you wouldn’t be able to walk after he was done.  He’d keep his head between your thighs all night if that’s what it took to satisfy you if that was what you wanted.  He felt so sad, just thinking of all the nights you’d had without him, where you’d perform this ritual on yourself without him there to soothe the ache where he belonged.

 

Well, it wouldn’t be much longer now, he decided to himself.  You needed him badly, more urgently than he had thought.  He was going to take care of you, he was going to do whatever you wanted, and he was going to do it perfectly.

 

He hears you moan, and he can already taste you on his tongue.

 

It won’t be long now.  Not long at all.


	2. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more of a prequel than a sequel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celebrating 100+ followers on tumblr! Thank you everyone!

It was a night like any other when he met her. The new waxing moon was just a sliver of silver in the sky, a few clouds to help the light pollution with hiding the stars and the air was damp and humid from the morning’s rain. It was perfect for swinging through the streets.

So that was what Peter Benjamin Parker was doing when he happened upon a robbery. You were giving the robber the good fight, giving him such a stiff, stern glare that Peter himself was impressed.

“You ever kill an unarmed woman, sir?” you ask, fixing him with a disdainful glare.

“Yes,” the robber said, unconvincingly. His face was uncovered save for a small black mask. “All the time, broad”. He cocks the guns hammer in a threat, hand shaking.

Your eyes flicker to him and a little bit of relief sinks into them before they go back to the robber. Your arms remain crossed. “Really? You don’t look much like a killer to me”. You walk forward with confidence. “You look like some kid wrapped up in the wrong crowd. How do you think you’ll sleep at night knowing you shot a defenseless woman in some alley and left her body in the mud?”

“I- Shut your damn mouth!” he snaps, shaking the gun in your face, a knife in the other. Peter creeps closer overhead, evening his haunches for a jump. “I’ve done this a million times!”

“Oh?” you say, amusement, backing away so the gun doesn’t hit your nose. “Because I think a real seasoned murderer would know…” you look up, catching Peter’s eyes. He nods, admiring your bravery. “…That you usually turn the safety off first”.

You duck, and he leaps. The robber startled, spinning to him with wide eyes and pulling the trigger. The gun clicked, but no bullet came for him.

Oh, you’re  _good_.

He kicks the gun from his hand and webs it to the wall. The knife comes down in a fearful slash. It misses skin, Peter rolling with the jab and grappling the wrist. The kid was smaller up close, probably not even out of high school, when he noticed a gang symbol. New recruit. The kid looked at his hand and dropped the knife. “I- I-” he stumbles, tongue useless.

Pity welled in Peter’s throat and he pulled the kid close to his face by the front of his jacket. “Go home, kid,” he growls. “Or I’ll be back for round two. You don’t belong with them”.

The kid’s jaw drops and after a stunned silence he nods rapidly. “Y- Yes! Yes, yes sir!” he stutters. The second Peter releases him he’s gone, booking it like hell was on his heels.

Peter sighs, turning to the dame who had snuck up next to him. “Think he’ll be okay?” you wonder aloud and Peter puzzles if it was a question for him or rhetorical.

“Probably. Maybe,” he says. “Would you like me to walk you home?”

You flash him an amused smile. “Spider-Man walks?” you ask, tone teasing.

Peter chuckles, rubbing his jaw with his fingers before offering his arm. “Usually it’s up walls, but I’ll manage”.

You chuckle, taking the arm. “Thank you,” you say gently. He tips his hat and leads you from the alley. “I didn’t think I’d end up behind the eight ball just getting some dinner”.

Your hand is warm and Peter’s throat is a little tight. You’re pretty; distractingly so. “A little late for dinner, isn’t it?” he prods, looking down to see a paper bag he hadn’t noticed before, too wrapped up in the robbery.

You shrug. “Better late than never; besides I was busy”.

“Busy getting robbed, yes, I noticed”.

You chuckle. “Smart mouth for a man with chelicera”.

“My fangs aren’t the sharpest thing about me”.

“Oh, now that I’m going to doubt”.

Peter barks a laugh. “Quick, aren’t you, ma'am?”

“Better quick than dead. Oh, this is me, Mr. Spider,” you say with teasing enunciation of the nickname. “Oh- your- did he hit you?”

Peter turned to check his shoulder, a noticeable and large tear at the shoulder in the thick fabric. “Not the skin. He nicked my coat is all. Have a good night, ma'am”.

“Wait-!” she says, grabbing him by the sleeve of the unripped shoulder, “I could- I could fix that if you’d like”. Her cheeks flush a bit and she releases his sleeve.

Peter feels his own cheeks warm under the mask. “W- Well, I- uh-” he stumbles, grasping for words. “I don’t want to be a bother ma'am, I can fix it”.

You smile and it’s lovely. “It’s no trouble at all! That’s what I do for a living anyhow. I make clothes,” you say gesturing to the building. It’s a clothing shop, thief gate layering the windows. “I mean, I do other things to make ends meet but- yeah that was the plan”.

Peter looks down to her. “…I don’t want to impose…”

You smile and Peter’s heart races. Her hands run from his sleeve to tug his leather gloved wrist gently. “Come on, Mr. Spider,” you tease with that lovely sparkle of mischief, “Come into my parlor”.

That gets a chuckle from him and he finds his feet following you through the doorway and into the dark store. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

You shrug. “All of New York is your parlor I’d say”. You carefully pull his trench coat from his shoulders and he allows it, tugging at his shirt collar and undoing the tight buttons. “I’ll be just a moment,” you say, leading him into the back of the store where he finds a small burner, kettle, and mugs on a counter. There’s also a work office desk with finance sheets, receipts, and requests on it, and a sewing table by a window with piles of fabrics awaiting their transformation. He finds himself charmed by the normalcy of it all. “Set the kettle on, if you like”.

Peter assumes you might have asked because you wanted some, and it was rude to say no to someone’s drinks when you were in their house, so he did. You open a small box, thread a needle with black thread and begin to stitch along the cut. You’re finished before the kettle whistles. You hand his coat back. “Here, try it on”.

He thumbs over the almost completely hidden seam. He does, and it still fits comfortably. “Thank you, ma'am”.

You smile. “Not a problem. You help a lot of people, you know,” you say gently. “We’re all grateful”.

Peter’s chest burns like the one time he’d tried to smoke in high school and discovered asthma. “Well- well, um-”

“Take care of yourself out there, Spider-Man; won’t you?” you say softly, expression earnest. “We- I would- it would be a real shame if you were gone”. You stumble over the words awkwardly but Peter’s heart flutters at the sentiment in your voice.

Peter nods dumbly and you turn to pour a cup from your now whistling kettle. He’s gone before you turn around.

He hovers above your window when you look out, sighing and setting a mug of tea on the banister and holding your own. He watches you, examining your movements. He should go. He should leave.

But something fixated in him on you. Like two gears finally clicked into place, like the cap to a pen that had been thought lost.

He needs to know who you are. He’s already seen who you are when people are around; smooth, careful, confident, poised, and a bit of a smart mouth. Who were you though, when people weren’t looking?

He wants to find out.

He needs his camera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr at furorem-yandere.tumblr.com for more yandere headcanons and stories. I rarely post anything here unless its a crosspost.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! Send requests and headcanons to furorem-yandere.tumblr.com


End file.
